My eyes got tired from smiling, but I practiced in the mirror, throwing the cash-register tape in loops like a lasso. Sometimes they would fly around a gas station owner’s shoulders. This was a trick, to get them touching it, eager for what came next.
When they said yes, I drove back to the office, slunk into my cubicle, and added up the new numbers. By night I knew at least one gas station owner would call and ask me to go out. I looked at my briefcase, my special 3-D business cards.
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